When 3 feels like 40 but looks like 70


Torture device used in the Middle Ages

Today was a cardio day.  Or as it’s known in my house: Torture Tuesday.  For those uninformed coach potatoes out there, cardio consists of exercises that reduces the viscosity of bodily fluids and thereby increase its mobility  (It’s a pleasure ;-))  The fluids being blood and sweat off course.

Now the obvious question would be ‘Why?’  Why would I want to get up at five in the morning, on a shit-its-still-cold spring morning to go for a run.  The answer is that my metabolism hasn’t just slowed down, it retired.  It’s sitting somewhere on a beach on a deck chair slugging back on beer and Margarita’s with his toes in the sand.  So in the absence of my calorie destroying partner, the only way I can retain a pre-obese BMI, and still enjoy wine and pasta, is by getting of my ass.

So off I went.  It’s common knowledge that we all want to look like Captain America or Flash when we run, whilst we actually resemble Ace Ventura exiting the cave after being attacked by Bats.

It started great as I was entering the empty street, which didn’t surprise me for I know there are not that many loony’s living in our neighbourhood.  Then I got to the T-junction and I had to make a choice of running up or down the next street that had a slight incline of about 3 degrees.  It became quite clear that when you are faced with an up or down hill situation in life, don’t listen to the small voice that tells you: “You’ll be fine, it’s not that bad.  Your fit, your capable, you can do it!”

I am such an idiot for listening to that little mother%*^$%!.

The little incline turned out to be the footpath to the top of Kilimanjaro.  Very different from the stable running I normally do on a treadmill, I must add.  By the time I reached the top I cursed myself and every other Rocky impersonator who ever jumped up and down like some crazed lunatic.  You know who you are!  I barely had the energy to turn and check for vehicles before crossing the street, nevertheless turn around with a hoody and lift my arms and jump.  That scene is a farce, by the way.

I really wanted to sit down and cry but determination forced me to keep on running.  Or it may have been the two young joggers coming towards me at that very moment.  The greatest thing about reaching the top of anything is the fact that there is a decline at the other side.  The bad thing about said incline is that you have to control your speed, otherwise you might end up running like a cart-wheel speeding up, and those never ends well!

People passing me looked away quickly and I didn’t have the energy to figure out whether they were rude or just plain scared.  Seeing a wide-eyed, heavy breathing, sweat-covered, crazed, cart wheeling jogger at 05h30 in the morning will frighten anyone!

To say I was exhausted reaching home might be accurate, but it’s difficult to say as the sweat in my eyes made it impossible to identify the right remote button for the gate.  There was a real chance of me setting of the house alarm and causing havoc to my sleeping family.

I walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle, which fortunately had enough water in for the required four cups.  Getting water would have been like lifting a three-ton truck.  I was convinced that I forgot my body somewhere along the route and now my soul was seeking refuge.

My beautiful wife came strolling down the stairs in her luscious, pink gown.  Her eyes widened and we had the following conversation:

Wife: “How was the run?”

Husband: *Hanging on the kitchen counter for dear life, with excessive breathing that should only be heard in an eighties porn movie*

Wife: “Guess it was tough then?”

Husband: *Looked up at the wife with his most condescending effort possible.  Still breathing heavily and thus only managed a weak smile.  Tried to stand up straight and look the part…*

Wife: “Goodness love, how far did you run?”

Have to interject here, as the wife really seemed sincere and concerned for my well being for I must have looked like a refugee from Syria.

Husband: *With every effort the vocal cords cooperated* “Not…too far….I think…about….3 km….It feels….like I did…forty….”

Wife: *Smirking smiling as she turned back up the stairs* “Looks like you did 70…”

I am sure I heard her giggle at the top of the stairs.  There is such a fine line between love and hate; isn’t there?


16 thoughts on “When 3 feels like 40 but looks like 70

  1. I was convinced that I forgot my body somewhere along the route and now my soul was seeking refuge. – Ohhh boy this made me laugh! My husband and I are trying to evolve from couch potato to awesome. So far we’re more couch potato-y, but today’s a new day!


  2. Well done my friend! Tuesday is Plyometric day for me (p90x), so I understand your pain entirely. But our hearts and lungs will be so fabulous, right? Your wife seems amazing. Anyone who wears pink luscious gowns is a champion in my book : )


  3. Aaaand THAT is why every thought I have ever had about going running has been swiftly and promptly squashed. (Although my metabolism is asking yours to pass the sunscreen, to I ought to do something…)


  4. Love this post. I don’t know how you or your wife look, but I could see the scene play out in real time in my mind’s eye. Laughing as I try to wipe out the image of a sweaty, panting, tongue-hanging, eye-bulging man hanging on to the edge of the island counter from my mind.
    “my metabolism hasn’t just slowed down, it retired. ” Ah, my soul brother.


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